


Blade Runner Blues

by checkyourthreadtension



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Angst and Porn, Chinese Food, Confessional Sex, Girl Scout Cookie Competition Challenge, M/M, Overthinking, Panic Attacks, Self Confidence Issues, Thunder and Lightning, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 16:44:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3736207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/checkyourthreadtension/pseuds/checkyourthreadtension
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m not afraid of you. You can’t fuck me up more than I’ve already fucked up myself.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blade Runner Blues

**Author's Note:**

> I had a slow day at work and wrote a lot--a lot--of words. Too many, probably. Couldn't decide on a title for this so I just picked what was playing on iTunes, if you wanna get yourself in the mood. (Oliver's totally watched Blade Runner, right...? Listen here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RScZrvTebeA) I haven't written anything in like ten years, I'm super rusty. Enjoy a text wall of porn. 
> 
> Set a few months ahead. Oliver's thinking too much about things; Connor's probably trying not to think at all.

It all started with the glasses, he supposed. More exactly, the day he showed up to school with them for the first time and went home holding the pieces in tears.

His mother had picked them out. A big thick pair, ones that she’d anticipated would be less fragile in the hands of a grade schooler. But the lesson he learned that day for the first time was that nothing was meant to go right for him, he’d always be different, and that was just the way it was. Nearsightedness was out of his control, just as it was out of his control for the playground bullies to laugh, snatch the frames from his face and stomp them underfoot until he and the frames cracked. _Nerd._ The punishment from his mother hadn’t helped either. A sharp slap to the back of the head, a rant half in Tagalog about _utang-na-loob_ he could barely understand, and finally he was sent to his room still crying with the broken pieces of his eyesight, turning to the comfort of the old Apple II his father had left in his room. _All Asians are nerds_ , their laughter would echo in his head. How could he deny it when the computer was his only friend, the only one who didn’t laugh at him or ask him to do someone’s math homework?

The realization had been next: the first time he saw his science teacher in the very first class on the very first day of junior high, with a powerful yet gentle smile and eyes that made him go weak in the knees, pervading every corner of his mind. It left him breathless and stuttering for days, so much that his mother nearly made him stay home, thinking that his perpetual flush was from a fever. _This can’t be happening_ , he thought, as his life spiraled out of control again over something he couldn’t help. _Don’t think about it. Don’t think about him. Maybe you’re just confused._ But the delicious electricity that shot through his body whenever he was called on to give the right answer, and the agonizing, awkward hard-on he’d gotten when they bumped in the hall for a brief second wouldn’t let him forget. He finally gave in the instant he got home that first Friday afternoon, immediately locked himself in his room, dropped his jeans in a split-second, and came hard to the idea of a kiss, just one kiss.

He never admitted it to anyone. Who was going to console him, the anonymous numbers on the other end of an ICQ chat? He needed touch, he needed more than text on a screen. High school had been the most painful of all, relegated to obscurity in the math club while his eyes trailed after the smiles and touches he could never have. Too shy to ask, too awkward to be asked. Undergrad at MIT had been better, at least there were ways to meet people. But even after a few shots for courage, he’d never managed to do anything at a club than nod uncomfortably to the beat, painfully aware that no one was dropping by or shooting looks his way, and he’d left alone every single time, crying himself to sleep. _Hey, it’s just like that one song by The Smiths,_ a friend had laughed once. At least there was solace in knowing he wasn’t utterly alone in his misery to have someone else writing a song about it.

But how was that supposed to make it hurt any less? How was it supposed to be okay when one relationship after another fizzled out after a month, only to hear they’d hooked up with _models_ afterward? If only he were someone with confidence and camaraderie, who looked like the men in the magazines he snuck a peek at whenever no one was looking, someone who lived and breathed sex—not _him_ , with his glasses and a face that couldn’t even seduce a teddy bear. Being truly desired and needed and _wanted_ was a selfish dream of his that had persisted over the years. All he could offer was kindness and hope that someone would come along. His mother had said over the years that after all, the harder the hardships, the better the reward. _You won’t know true happiness until you’ve truly suffered._

And then there was Connor Walsh. Maybe that was the beginning.

Of course it had been too good to be true. Even in the bar he’d staunchly been second-guessing himself. A guy like that could not _possibly_ be eye-fucking a guy like him. Even when Connor was before him on his knees, his cock deeper than it had ever been in any man’s throat before, he’d still second-guessed it. _He only wants the emails_ , he’d tried to convince himself—but then Connor was doing things to him he’d only dreamed of before and he’d given in completely. But somewhere along the line, somewhere in between being fucked or fucking him, he’d gone and fallen in love. Connor did want him; that was clear. As painfully shy as he’d been when Connor had asked him that one time to just stand across the bedroom while he laid on the bed and stared at his naked body as he got harder and harder and his cock reared up from the sheets, pure fireworks of excitement had burst inside his heart. The tension had been thick as a knife, both of them breathing heavily, heat rising, until Connor had been the first to break, ordering him just with his eyes to _fuck me._

Before reality slapped him in the face like it always did. _I like you, actually._ Buttered up and flattered and he’d willingly gone along with it. He’d known better than that; he was _better_ than that. If Connor had just asked for hacking and paid with his body, treating him like an obedient pet, maybe he wouldn’t have gone and started having feelings. But just as often Connor would come without warning, finding whatever odd excuse he could to be over— _take off your clothes; the Chinese place next door was having Mabodofu Mondays again; I need to borrow your laundry detergent_ —and he hadn’t asked for anything but him. But the recording, the sick feeling of heartbreak, realizing he was nothing, not even another notch on the bedpost but just a means to an end, really _nothing_ despite Connor’s protests, it had all been too much for him to take. He’d broken the mug Connor always used in a fit of rage and cried tears from a place deep inside his heart. 

But one taste of heaven and he couldn’t pull himself away. Connor _was_ like a drug to him. He’d bolt awake in the middle of the night, sweating, only to realize his underwear was warm and sticky again from another erotic dream of a tongue deep inside him. Connor had burrowed into his apartment so deeply that they’d fucked everywhere there’d been a surface to fuck on; he couldn’t look anywhere without thinking about what they’d done in a particular spot. Even at work, his colleagues glanced over in concern at how agitated he seemed to be. _Jesus, Oliver, I’ve never seen you mad at anything; what’s wrong?_ How could he admit it was because of _Connor Walsh_ ; that he’d rush off to the bathroom every hour to masturbate, desperately trying to clear his mind of those eyes and that smirk and how it never, ever worked, because he could practically hear Connor’s whisper in his ear with every stroke? _Let’s give your co-workers a show._

Of course he’d been angry. Utterly livid. But maybe he was just that insecure that his anger toward Connor quickly turned into self-loathing. How could he have been so stupid? How come he couldn’t just get over him, when _Connor_ was the one who’d fucked it and them up and broken that trust? What was wrong with him? Connor had been right, they hadn’t ever said anything about being exclusive; but how in hell could Connor think a guy like _him_ was picking up men every night? He’d been so damn determined to get over him, trying to be the mature one in the entire mess, that he was suddenly the one buying the Maker’s Manhattans for the first man who so much as glanced his way and even brought him home—and killed the mood in bed when he’d lost himself in the moment and screamed out loud for _Connor_.

No matter how long or hot the shower, he couldn’t wash Connor away much less all the kisses burned into his skin and all the memories. Dinner afterward had been too awkward. _I’m sorry, Oliver._ So much for swagger and confidence. Maybe there was just something inherently wrong with him right from the start, right from the glasses. _We decided to try again._ ‘We’. The underwear model the guy had mentioned in the bar when they’d floridly espoused their respective exes. Another _model_ , of all things, as if he'd really needed extra salt rubbed into the wound. _All Asians are nerds._ Just when Connor had made him feel attractive for the first time in his life.

And just when maybe he thought he was over it all—there he was again, a mess on his doorstep, his body caked with the thick smell of smoke and something else he couldn’t quite place, admitting he had a drug problem. How could he keep Connor out of his life like that when he so obviously needed a lifeline? And Connor kept coming back, again and again. And he was pinning him to the wall, kissing him furiously though it was the wrong thing to do. _I don’t trust anyone in my life except you._ And then he was being kissed so gently after too many drinks. _I want this. And you._ It would’ve been so easy for Connor to take him then, too. Drunk as he was, he’d wanted it even more after Connor had done the responsible thing and turned down an easy hookup.

But now this. But now _this_.

At some point Oliver knew there were no more tears left in him to shed. In any case, the weather outside was doing it well enough for him. It had been storming since three days before, the day he’d gently let go of Connor, closing the door on him for the last time. It had been the right thing to do, even if he was letting go of the one ray of light left to him. _Kindness got you nothing._ Hadn’t the nonsense cosmic force powering the universe taught him that painful lesson over and over? Some people simply weren't meant to be happy, no matter how many times his mother’s words played in his head. _Better accept it now rather than later._

There wasn’t a good way to express it in English and his Tagalog was embarrassingly poor. But _utang-na-loob_ was drilled into his head by his mother, a gratitude of sorts to those who’d helped you out. That was why he’d gotten the smack on his head after the first time he brought home broken glasses. He’d failed, in the eyes of his mother, to properly take care of them after she’d gone to the trouble to take care of him. _Asian logic_ , he’d laughed about it with friends later on in life. And still, part of him was always a bit irked when boyfriends didn’t seem to get it. Maybe it was the one lone thing that had sunk in from a culture so distant, and why it had hurt so deeply to shut that door.

He’d never mentioned it to Connor before, but despite the cheating, the excuses, and lies—he just got it, in a way that no other man in his life had before. He’d been there for every single doctor exam he could get to, apologizing profusely for the ones he couldn’t. One afternoon he’d woken up dazed and Connor had been there holding his hand, smiling though it looked like he’d seen a ghost, patiently explaining that _Ollie, you passed out after they drew blood._ He’d been there, locking their fingers together, as the doctor prescribed a first round of antiretrovirals for him and Truvada for Connor. _Just in case_ , Connor had smirked. And he’d been there when Oliver had felt so ill from the side effects he couldn’t keep down a single bite of food, driving him to the clinic and probably breaking the sound barrier, or the speed limit at least, to do it; and driving them back with a new cocktail in hand. Oliver had felt so weak and mortified that night, and Connor had brushed it off, calmly holding him on the couch. _Don’t be sorry, Oliver. This is what boyfriends are supposed to do, right?_

He couldn’t deny he was grateful. Oliver had never realized he’d ever be so dependent on a person in his life, trusting him with his life quite literally. Surely Connor felt obliged to help, thankful for everything Oliver had done for him. But what had Oliver done for him, really? Connor hadn’t ever let him go along to the rehab clinic where he was getting help ( _“You’d have more fun watching Recipes from the Anarchist Cookbook on the public access channel, I promise”_ ), hadn’t let Oliver do half the things for him that he was doing now.

It was suspicious, reminiscent of how Connor had avoided the truth about that recording way-back-when. Connor _hated_ talking, especially about rehab and especially about that night he’d shown up on the doorstep with that bizarre smell he couldn’t place. Oliver had joked about it one night over a plate of spaghetti, how the answering machine at the clinic’s reception desk—no one ever seemed to actually pick up the phone—sounded an awful lot like Laurel with a super-size cup of vocal fries. Connor had brushed that off easily too, as he always did, deftly avoiding the subject. _You don’t need to be there. Thinking of you is enough to keep me going_ , he’d come over and held him peacefully for what seemed like forever. At least until a police siren had blared in the distance and Connor had twitched, wordlessly going back to his spaghetti with a posture like a frightened squirrel. _Are you on something? I wish_. Something had happened that night that had shaken him to the core and he’d held onto Oliver’s strength ever since. And in that regard, even if rehab wasn’t exactly the truth, Oliver knew Connor’s feelings at least were honest. When had he ever been loved like that before? It didn’t feel real. Hadn’t it been exactly what he wanted?

Which was exactly why Connor deserved better than this. More than him, who couldn’t give Connor what he really needed. Someone who could be that lifeline and solid rock, not the paranoid mess he’d become, unable to believe in himself anymore.

Maybe he should’ve been flattered Connor would still want him, even after testing positive. That he could feel _that thing in his pants_ when they were curled up together on the couch, letting Netflix scroll through and pick out movies for them; or as Connor held him securely in bed, snug against his frame; or pressed against his hip, when they took showers together. That was what had kicked off this whole mess. Connor had been an antagonizing little devil with a soapy loofah, and for a blissful few minutes, he’d forgotten completely that life had changed forever. The streams of water poured over them as Connor pushed them to the wall, the two of them rutting against each other like animals in heat and greedily indulging in kisses after they’d chastely abstained for so long. Connor had come first, Oliver right after—and he’d suddenly snapped out of the mood, absolutely terrified they hadn’t done it safely, so absolutely sure he’d put Connor at risk. _I can’t, I can’t do it_. He’d had a panic attack in the shower. _I’m so sorry, I can’t do it_. And now it was Connor who stayed calm, saying nothing but gently running his hands through Oliver’s hair until he relaxed. _It wasn’t even sex,_ Connor kissed and reassured him. _All we did was hump each other, no big deal._

But _it wasn’t even_ and _all we did_ was didn’t make his paranoia disappear. Just the opposite, in fact. All of his doubt and insecurity, built up in the back of his mind his entire life, had come hurtling back like a bullet train and beat more true in his heart than the love he’d finally found.

Maybe it was rash of him to have one of those dreaded talks a couple days afterward. _I don’t want to do this to you, if it’s going to be like that every time. I can’t be what you need anymore, not when I can’t live with myself._ Connor had that same look in his eye as he did the first time he was kicked out, the incredulous and infuriated one. But he said nothing. He only gathered up his things in bitter silence and slowly closed the door behind him, not even bothering to hide how he broke down in tears outside the door once it clicked behind him. Not that Oliver hadn’t been heartbroken himself. But that was just when the storm had hit Philadelphia and by that point he had nothing left in him to shed. Back to scraping the bottom of a barrel for a shred of confidence, right where he’d always been. It was almost comfortable at that point to be the nerd, the awkward loner, the closeted gay kid; and now the HIV-positive pariah.

Rather helpful of the weather, he thought, to cry for him when he couldn’t scrape any tears together himself. And a thundering, blustering rain too, one perfectly reflecting the tumult in his heart. But the flash of lightning and thunderclap were simultaneous for a moment, startling him so much that Oliver barely heard the knock at his door. Who on earth would be visiting at a time like this, in this kind of weather? There was only one possible answer: _“Connor?!”_

He should’ve known. The only time anyone ever came to his doorstep at an ungodly hour, it was Connor Walsh, whether eyeing him with lust that made him weak at the knees or breaking down hysterically in his arms. Tonight yet another face of the man greeted him at the door: angry, fierce and utterly determined. Maybe even doubly so given that he was soaking wet from the rain, with his hair and clothes in damp disarray. It was a gaze anyone would tremble under and Oliver was no different, locked to the spot and spellbound.

“I need you,” he abruptly interrupted Oliver’s thoughts.

Maybe it was a good thing he did. He _had_ been thinking too much, obsessing over the past and not the present. And here he was, stumbling all over his damn self again as he led Connor inside. Compassion wouldn’t let him keep Connor outside 303, it never had. “Did you _walk here_ in the storm?! You’re totally soaked, we have to get you dry!”

“ _I need you_ ,” he repeated himself, stepping closer.

Oliver tried to hide from that gaze, the same that had made him feel there was hope for him as Connor had fucked him breathless that first night. And _fucked_ really was the right word for it. Sex had been intimate and close and rose petals and silk bed sheets and frustratingly _vanilla_ every other time before, as if sex were simply an obligation in a relationship that had lasted more than two weeks. It had never been the kind that Connor had given him, the kind that made his eyes water or made him see stars and made him legitimately feel desired and wanted. And no one had ever wanted him the way Connor had, as he pounded into Connor beneath him, who clung to him and begged for more and more, wanting his cock inside deeper and deeper, wanting him, whimpering in pleasure, calling his name in a way he’d only ever dreamed. _That’s how you are for me._

“But you completed your internship with Annalise Keating, didn’t you? That—that was the end of the hacking, you said.” _Just accept it. Some people aren’t meant to have this. Hasn’t it sunk in yet? Why do you keep doing this to yourself? He’s an addiction you have to resist. For his sake, now._

Connor flinched at the name somehow. The last thing Connor had wanted to hear, apparently. “Ollie, _I need you,_ ” Connor pulled him close and nearly hissed in his ear, dragging his hands through Oliver’s hair and making him shiver head to toe. “It’s not about Annalise or the others anymore. It’s about you and us and— _fuck_.”

“Connor, I don’t want to make you sick,” Oliver mumbled, trying to pull away. Connor had enough to deal with in his own life without adding his insecure mess on top of it. He could only imagine the chaos Connor’s psyche was in, dealing with a boss whose husband was found burnt and chopped to pieces; dealing with ever more murders and dead bodies that never seemed to end. Connor had rolled his eyes about it once— _Ollie, seriously, HIV is nothing compared to the HBO drama that is Annalise Keating’s life_ —but he couldn’t bring himself to add on more stress nonetheless. “A-and you need a sponsor who’s not a nervous wreck and a bundle of nerves. It’s better if we leave it here.”

“ _I don’t want ‘better’,_ ” Connor’s voice was the fiercest he’d ever heard it. “How many times do I have to say it? _I need you._ ”

“I want it too,” he whispered, his head falling on Connor’s shoulder. “You know I do. I want us, but—”

Oliver was cut off abruptly by Connor’s furious kiss, hot and heavy on his mouth. Connor could always do this to him, melt him into nothing but a mess of nerves and have him begging for touch. Wasn’t it the reason anyone fell for Connor Walsh? Oliver had never had that power over anyone and now here he was, falling prey to it again. “You’re more than sex,” Connor finally broke off, pulling him close to his chest again. “So don’t make this a bigger deal than it is.”

That line again. Turned on its head to be some bizarre declaration of love, it stung even more. “This _is_ a big deal,” Oliver cursed himself. Connor always knew what to say, how to touch him. How could he risk being a death sentence to someone he so desperately loved? “You could be—”

“Jesus, Oliver, HIV's not a fucking death sentence, I know what you’re thinking,” Connor gripped him tightly and Oliver turned his eyes away, embarrassed. “And it’s not some bizarre karmic payback you deserve for sucking a guy’s dick on the first date or whatever. It’s just a virus, it doesn’t define you. Don’t let it define _us_.”

He trembled. “What if I infected you? This—you don’t want this,” he shook his head. “I couldn’t do that to you.”

“If I get it, then I’ll deal with it. Same as you’re doing right now,” Connor swung his face back to meet his eyes. “But trying to push me away out of this need to protect me? It’s bullshit and you know it. You’re scared, I get it.”

Oliver’s face burned, half shamed and half angry. Connor was damningly accurate. “You can’t tell me how to feel.”

“No, but you know what I _can_ tell you?” His eyes were piercing like a hawk’s, down to the soul. “I can tell you that you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Sex with you is incredible, but forget about that right now. You know what else about you is incredible? How I can sleep without nightmares when I see your smile and I know you’re there beside me. How you had the heart to forgive me after what I did to you and you took me back. How being around you and with you makes anything better, even if it’s five minutes of Jack Horkheimer—“

“H-he’s dead, actually; they have someone else doing Star Gazer now.”

“… Whatever, you know what I mean. How you and I fought over which box of Girl Scout Cookies to buy right in front of their booth at the grocery store, and how stupid and domestic it was, and I never felt happier than when I was arguing with you about all the reasons to buy Samoas—“

“Thin Mints.” His mouth twitched into a smile for just a moment. “ _I_ won that fight.”

“Ollie, would you just—!” Connor sighed in exasperation, hanging his head for just a second before he lifted it back up. “Okay, we’re going to have a long talk about that later. You know what else is incredible about you, how you make that amazing stew from that recipe you got from your aunt in Cebu, adobe stew—”

“Adobo.”

“… _Whatever!_ You’re an incredible cook, while I even manage to fuck up leftovers when the chicken blows up in the microwave! And you’re a genius, not just with the hacking, but everything, I mean—fuck, you being such a dork is one of the best things about you. I can’t stop thinking about your eyes and your skin, you’re warm and I can’t sleep without you now, everything feels cold without you,” Connor squeezed his hand, his face buried in the crook of Oliver’s neck, sliding his icy fingers against his palm to catch as much warmth as he could. All of his actions were less furious. Softer, gentler. “You’re—you’re beautiful. I don’t know what or who the hell made you feel so insecure, but damn it, every time I see you I can’t believe I’m with someone like you.”

The air slipped from his lungs just like it had their very first night in bed. “Beautiful? Connor…”

“Has no one ever told you that before? Because I’ll make sure you and the rest of the world fucking know it.”

Oliver trembled. He could still hear the snap of his glasses frames as a tear slipped from his eye. “… No one.” _No one’s ever said anything like that to me before._

“All I ever _do_ is think of you and wonder how the hell I got so lucky. I don’t even care about law school or the bar exam or anything anymore, I just know I need to be here with you.”

“D-don’t say that,” Oliver murmured. “Being a lawyer is so important to you, I know it is; I’m not—”

“ _Yes you are,_ ” Connor pulled at his shirt. “You’re _everything._ ”

Connor’s hands were already under Oliver’s shirt, on his skin, greedy for warmth. As Oliver’s head fell against his neck, he responded in kind, his hands tugging the shirt from Connor’s belt to warm his damp, freezing skin. “I need you,” Connor murmured again, quiet this time and nearly like a whimper. “I’m not scared of you or you being positive. Maybe—maybe last year I was scared of—of _us_ , as a thing, but I know I need you, so just—”

“Connor…” Oliver sank into his embrace, finally. _I need you._

Connor breathed out a deep, shuddering sigh of relief, sinking back into Oliver’s arms. “Don’t make me go,” he pulled him closer. “ _Please._ ”

“I’m sorry I tried to—” Oliver choked on his words slightly, trying to stuff his tears away. “I—I just—I can’t lose you. I’m so scared of myself right now, Connor, I’m so scared I’d make you sick and lose you, a-and I never believed I’d ever have anyone like you before, and I just—it’s like…”

Connor was patient as Oliver gathered his thoughts. “It’s okay. Go slow.” He squeezed his hand reassuringly.

“It’s like… sometimes I feel like I’m not meant to have this,” Oliver bit his lip, the self-recrimination in his voice clear. “Have someone like you, I mean. Like I’m just supposed to be alone forever. Like the universe o-or something keeps throwing all this shit at me and I try to be better than it all, I do, I try to be stronger than that, better than that; b-but then this happened and I thought… I’m not supposed to have anyone.”

Connor lifted his head, catching Oliver’s gaze. “You’re not alone. You’re _not._ ”

“Connor—” he swallowed his anxiety, before pulling Connor close for a kiss, deep and slow, savoring his taste like it were the first time for them both. His heart was swelling, bursting with love and gratitude. It wasn’t the final hardship to overcome to happiness. That, he was certain of. But there was a light at the end of the tunnel that hadn’t existed before. 

Connor moaned into his mouth and the kiss, full of want and desire, slowly grinding their hips together. “Oliver,” he whispered, his voice full of urgency. 

Oliver couldn’t help but smile a little. “You idiot, coming here in a storm. We need to get you out of these clothes before you catch a cold,” he was already unbuttoning Connor’s shirt. He slid it off along with Connor’s jacket, hitting the ground roughly. Next was his undershirt, his belt was swiftly unbuckled, and his pants and underwear fell down to his ankles. Connor’s naked skin was still cold and clammy from the rain, but Oliver was warm to the touch, and so he rubbed his palms over Connor’s chest and back, trying to warm him up. “Come on. We’ll get you into the shower, I’ll make some tea; we’ll warm you up.”

“ _Tea?_ ” Connor frowned and lifted his eyebrows skeptically, a finger tracing the outline of Oliver’s erection in his sweatpants. “I mean, you _are_ more than sex, but I’m just saying, if you’re trying to warm me up there are way better ways to do it than tea.”

Oliver blushed, biting his lip a little. “W-well, I can h-handle that by myself when you’re in the shower,” he stammered, acutely aware of how it only turned on Connor more. “I mean, it’s not—like—I mean—”

“You didn’t take any vows of priesthood in the three days since I was gone, right?” Connor’s hand was already sneakily lifting up the hem of Oliver’s shirt; his eyes were practically undressing the rest. “You going to ship off to the Vatican like Ralph did to Meggie?”

“N-no, just…”

“Good,” Connor sank against him again and sucked at his earlobe. Oliver shivered from head to toe; Connor knew it was one of his most sensitive spots. “And forget about the shower, too. I prefer the bedroom.”

Oliver laughed again, slowly beginning to feel more comfortable. “I wouldn’t have guessed,” he teased a little. “But Con, we’ve never done it—”

“Yes we have,” Connor looked dangerous enough to rip off his shirt. Which did sound a little appealing—but Oliver lifted up his arms to let Connor tug it off, and he flung it aside on the couch. “In fact, I’m pretty sure we’ve done it on every possible surface in your apartment. That gravity will allow, anyway,” he glanced at the ceiling.

“No, I m-mean, we haven’t tried sex since…” Oliver stopped himself. _You have to face it someday._ Connor was obviously more than willing, and if he was afraid at any point, he’d done an admirable job of not letting it show. Besides, other couples managed just fine, didn’t they? _Don’t be scared of yourself._ Oliver took another breath to steady himself, before pushing the doubt out of his mind, and nodded. “We can try,” and brought Connor close to kiss him again.

Connor always had this sort of power over him, really. Just a kiss from him, sucking at his tongue deep within his mouth, was far more than enough to make Oliver forget the pain of his memories, yet another thing he was grateful for. For every laugh and taunt and pairs of broken glasses he’d endured, Connor just as gently smiled when their kisses knocked his glasses askew, and he would slide them off his face, delicately folding them and setting them aside. For every time he’d pined about the boys and men he couldn’t have, Connor blew them all out of the water, erasing every painful memory of denial and leaving nothing but his smoldering gaze imprinted in his mind. And as Connor was leading them to the bedroom, groping for the switch on the wall that would light up the fireplace—for every sexual encounter that had left him desperately wanting more, Connor had effortlessly fulfilled every single secret desire he’d ever had, even the ones he would have never admitted to himself, without even having to be asked. _Maybe even tonight he’ll make something happen,_ Oliver smiled to himself. Connor tugged on him slightly and they fell onto the bed, with Connor on his back shifting Oliver right where he wanted him. “Need you,” Connor mumbled through another kiss, thrusting up to scrape against Oliver’s cock, still trapped in his sweatpants. The friction was maddening and all that he could think of was Connor, consuming him as always. “Oliver…”

“Con?” Oliver lifted his head up from where he’d been kissing Connor, right where both sides of the collarbone met.

_Fuck me._

Oliver shivered from head to toe. Connor had that dark, dangerous look in his eye again, looking almost predatory. He could easily understand that look if were it the other way around, if Connor were wanting to fuck _him_. He’d seen that look in his eyes many, many times before. That was just the way Connor was. He was sex on two legs and fully cognizant of it, he could shoot you a look that would have you spreading your legs before you knew it. Oliver knew he hadn’t been the first or the last to see it.

But this one, Oliver knew this one. It was the same look that Connor had given him that night he’d ordered him to stand across the room while he laid back and stared, eating up every last inch of Oliver’s skin with his eyes. This was the look that had Oliver believe, for the first time in his life, he was genuinely desired—that he was a man someone could dream about having. Surely this wasn’t a look Connor afforded to just anyone. Strange that a predatory look could be so seductive in the other direction.

But damn if it didn’t make him believe in himself.

Oliver practically surged forward into another kiss, slamming Connor back down into the mattress with all the strength he had. His skin was still chilled from the rain, but was warming up fast, especially as Oliver snaked a hand down his torso and between his legs, catching Connor’s cock in his grip and thrusting roughly. Connor sighed and his head tilted back, mouthing wordless praise. Oliver had to scold himself mentally: how on earth could he have thought it was for the better to let Connor go, when he could drive him wild like this? Connor was writhing underneath him, a little too eager for Oliver’s touch perhaps, but—fuck, it was amazing to see Connor like this.

“Oliv—er…” He moaned out, thrusting up for more and more touch. “T-take it off.” He snapped the band on his sweatpants.

That was easy. Oliver quickly wriggled out of them and his underwear, kicking them away while stripping off Connor’s waterlogged socks. He sank back on top of Connor and it was so familiar, so good, he could forget about everything if only he were here all the time. Oliver kissed him again, sliding their hips together and reveling in the friction. _I want you all the time,_ he thought to himself as he broke away from Connor’s mouth to gently kiss at his neck. _Don’t let me hurt you. I can’t lose you._

Connor was sighing in pleasure at every soft kiss on his skin. For a few moments he let himself sink into the gentle touches as Oliver kissed wherever he pleased, but soon enough Oliver noticed he was groping for the drawer where the lube was. “I need you,” Connor mumbled, shivering as Oliver ran his hands up his torso, gently rubbing his skin to warm him up. It had been so long, Oliver needed to ease into things a little more slowly than usual. “Oliver…”

“Shh,” Oliver chided him a little, but with a smile he reached over and pulled out the lube out for him. A moment later, slowly lubing up his fingers, he blushed and nervously laughed. “You know, Con, I’m still—kind of scared about this.”

“It’s okay,” Connor flicked his eyes up to meet Oliver’s, and Oliver felt that same warm shudder of electricity ripple through him. “You’ve done this like a thousand times, it’s okay. You know what to do.”

“But never like this.”

“It’s okay; you’ll be fine,” Connor reassured him again, already lifting up his legs. His eyes were closed in compliant patience, waiting for Oliver to enter him. Oliver leaned on one of Connor’s raised legs just for a moment, a bit dizzy as his heart pounded with anticipation. _What would be any different about this? It’s your fingers. You’ll be okay, you will be._ And with a confident breath, Oliver slid in a first finger.

Connor’s reaction was instantaneous, as he moaned softly and clutched the sheets. Oliver had done this enough times to know exactly how to make Connor squirm, knew exactly where to touch him—exactly where to curl his finger to make Connor gasp out loud. “I guess I remember a few things,” Oliver smiled, just as soft as he was sly.

“Y-you’re fucking perfect,” Connor was already panting, squirming for more touch. “C’mon—more, Ollie, I can’t wait, I’m gonna go crazy here—”

“I just started!” Oliver scolded him, though he was smiling. “And we have to be careful, seriously.”

Connor growled in frustration, but obliged. There was a perverse sort of pleasure in it for Oliver, watching Connor moan helplessly as he slowly worked his finger in and out, carefully stretching him. Connor kept impatiently demanding more, but Oliver kept his pace steady, only adding a second finger when he felt no semblance of tension. Another anguished cry of pleasure slipped from Connor’s lips, one that Oliver gently kissed away even as his cock twitched in need. “Ollie, I can take it, come on,” Connor was panting in his ear. “You know I can, just—just--damn it _fuck_ —”

A third finger and Connor was practically mewling, clinging desperately to Oliver’s back. “Be patient,” Oliver murmured again.

“You want it too,” Connor was egging him on, still managing to smirk even as Oliver hit his prostate again and sent him reeling. “I-I know you do.”

“I’m being careful.”

“You’re being a goddamn tease,” Connor’s hand snaked up to Oliver’s hair and tugged. “I can do that too.”

Oliver gasped as Connor lightly traced his cock with a fingernail, just light enough to make him want for more. Connor knew all too well that light touches drove him wild. Heaven knows how many kinks he’d agreed to with just that touch and a glimpse of his smirk. But he wouldn’t give in, not yet, not until he was sure it was okay. He craned his neck to meet Connor’s mouth for another deep kiss, both of them moaning into each other’s mouth, wondering who the first to crack would be. Oliver thought it might be him for a second, with Connor’s finger lightly stroking his cock right where it was the most sensitive underneath the head, driving him so wild his mind was going blank—but Connor finally let out a strangled moan and gave in first, as a police siren bleated far away. “ _Oliver, fuck me,_ ” his eyes were lit with sudden urgency. 

“Oh?” He kissed his cheek.

“Ollie,” Connor breathed in his ear, almost frantic. “Ollie, I need you, I need you, just— _fuck me_.”

Oliver was all too eager to oblige. All the safe sex lectures were dancing in his head as he scrambled across the mattress, diving for the drawer on the nightstand again where he always kept a box of condoms. But Connor, with a dark glaze over his eyes that would’ve made any man’s heart stop, slapped it away into the fireplace. “ _Connor!_ ” Oliver gaped, his eyes madly darting around for where the box had gone, wondering why something so neon could be so hard to find. “What are you doing?! We can’t do this without protection, especially if you want _me_ to top!”

“I’ll take my chances,” Connor growled and pulled him down, sucking on his earlobe again, pinching a nipple, and _god_ it was too good. Oliver was drowning in the kiss again and all his sense of responsibility was being washed away, all of the information sessions; dozens of brochures; the safe sex video they watched in the doctor’s office that looked like it was right out of the nineties, how Connor had rolled his eyes that he did _not_ want to get this lesson from Screech Powers, they could’ve just played that Golden Girls episode, and how it made Oliver crack up into a giggling fit when he was trying to take it seriously. All of it was abruptly drowned out by pure lust and that dangerous look in Connor’s eyes, the one that always got him to break the rules, ever since the beginning over a Maker's Manhattan. “I’m not afraid of you. You can’t fuck me up more than I’ve already fucked up myself.”

Oliver’s heart was pounding like mad. Of course he wanted to do it without a condom, everybody wanted the things they couldn’t have. His viral load was undetectable—he’d diligently followed his prescription to the letter, both he and Connor had, but that didn’t mean it was _okay_. Was Connor thinking straight? “Y-you’re not—like— _bug-chasing_ or something, right?” He peered down suspiciously.

Connor rolled his eyes. “If I were I wouldn’t have stayed on Truvada. Now come on, just—”

“You didn’t stop taking it?” Oliver chewed his lip, still nervous.

“Of course not,” Connor pulled Oliver closer, mad with the need for skin. “Because I swore I wasn’t going to let you go and I’m not that stupid. Now just— _fuck me._ ”

“Con, I can’t do that to you!”

“ _Yes you can,_ ” Connor sighed in frustration. “I said I’m not scared. _This_ is how much I need you.”

It was nerve-wracking, his heart pounding like the thunder outside. Oliver had to remind himself to breathe and stay calm, even as his hand shook with the bottle of lube in hand. _He’s not scared of me._ He squeezed out a handful and spread it over his penis, as if the lube itself were somehow going to protect Connor more. _And if he’s not scared of me, I can’t be scared of myself. We’re home here._ "Y-You're sure?" he whispered, looking Connor dead in the eye. 

“I’m sure,” Connor nodded and grabbed his cock, lining it up right to his hole. They gazed at each other for just a moment, until Oliver slowly pushed in and Connor shut his eyes in sudden ecstasy, his mouth open but silent. Oliver watched closely, determined to remember what Connor’s face looked like. Despite the circumstances and the stakes involved, it _was_ their first time together without a condom (and maybe it’d be the only time, it was nerve-wracking). He’d dreamed of seeing that look of pure heaven on Connor’s face since the beginning, and he sure as hell wasn't going to let himself miss it. “Oh god,” Connor was even babbling a little as he pushed in all the way. “Oh god, oh god, Ollie— _Ollie_ —y-you feel so good...”

He understood the feeling. Connor felt unbelievable around him, so tight and warm and slick, that Oliver might have started babbling too, but his head was apparently a little bit clearer in the moment than Connor’s. “Still okay?” Oliver brushed his cheek. He already knew the answer, all he wanted was to buy time and see how far off the edge Connor could be pushed—or how long he could hold out, teasing Connor all the way. Connor nodded quickly, his eyes still closed and his face flushed, panting heavily. Oliver loved to see Connor like this, especially with the awareness that Connor was going crazy for him. Oliver smiled: “What do you want?”

“ _Fuck me._ ”

He’d made Connor beg before. He could do it again. “Didn’t catch that,” Oliver quietly pecked kisses to Connor’s throat.

“D-damn it, not this— _fuck me, Ollie,_ ” Connor grit his teeth and said it a little louder. “You know _exactly_ what I want, come on, I _need_ you—”

“You’re not asking very politely for it,” Oliver gently sucked at the skin, smiling as Connor growled in frustration beneath.

“ _Oliver!_ ”

He sucked a little harder, gently biting, careful not to draw blood. “Oliver, that’s me; that’s my name,” he innocently laughed, lightly pinching a nipple as Connor gasped and whimpered, bucking up against him. “What was it you wanted again?” Just a little more teasing and—

“— _Fuck me, please!_ ” Connor burst out loudly, throwing his head back. He desperately pulled Oliver closer, squeezing him from the inside. “Damn it, just— _please_ —”

Oliver smiled: that was definitely the best part about being on top. He pulled out once and thrust back in harshly, feeling the familiar warmth flush through him as Connor gasped. “Like that?” he nuzzled at Connor’s neck again, as Connor nodded frantically, clinging to him even more tightly.

“More like that,” Connor moaned.

And to be fair, Oliver was struggling to hold back himself, his own body practically begging him to start, all his hesitation fading away. _No going back now._ “More like that,” Oliver echoed and slowly began a rhythm, cheek to cheek against Connor, breathing in his scent and running a hand through his wet hair.

“You feel so damn good inside me,” Connor breathed quickly in his ear as Oliver began to speed up. “F-fuck—right there _right there_ holy shit—”

Babbling again. But Oliver could easily lose himself in it; he _wanted_ to lose himself in nothing but that litany of pleading sighs and praise. Connor felt so good around him, it was everything he’d dreamed of when he’d suggested even getting tested in the first place, all of the intimacy he’d imagined and more. “You’re incredible,” Oliver whispered, thrusting harder into Connor. “Don’t forget this.”

“Never,” Connor replied immediately, whimpering as Oliver hit his prostate again and his back arched. “O-Oliver, oh god—”

He’d never get enough of Connor’s noises when they were fucking like this. The whimpers and moans, especially the ones so high-pitched he thought Connor was going to fall apart, and the other things that would slip from his mouth, the pleas and the babbling and begging. “Don’t stop, don’t stop,” Connor was rambling, over and over. “I love you, I love you, Oliver don’t stop _don’t stop please—_ ”

_I love you._

That was the first time Connor had _ever_ said it.

It made his head spin with dizziness, even as he was still mindlessly thrusting on autopilot, and only added to the euphoria of the moment, boosting a natural high. He suddenly wanted more, he needed more—and somewhere within him he found even more strength, thrusting as hard as he could into Connor, making Connor cry out loudly and pull him even closer. The familiar heat of a coming orgasm was flush throughout him and he could tell by how Connor was holding his breath in anticipation that he was close, too. “ _Don’t stop, please,_ ” Connor quickly begged again, probably aware himself that Oliver was just as close. His breath hitched audibly, and his fingers shook as he tried to pull Oliver even closer. “Ollie, I-I’m—”

Connor gasped and his back arched as he came, absolutely gorgeous beneath him; Oliver could feel the sudden warmth on his stomach as Connor came down from his high and started to catch his breath. He was ready to pull out at that point and simply come on Connor’s chest, though it wouldn’t really be any safer than what they’d been doing. “Oh _fuck_ ,” Oliver breathed, nearly about to burst.

But Connor clenched so tightly around him, his legs squeezing around Oliver’s waist, keeping him where he was before he realized it. “Inside,” was all Connor could make out, as Oliver gasped and came hard, every pound of his heart filled with absolute ecstasy, with the danger of what they’d done barely registering with him. Oliver merely collapsed on top of Connor, utterly spent.

They stayed that way for a moment, still sweaty and panting. _No going back now._ “Connor… if you get sick, I—I’m sorry,” Oliver whispered, not sure whether to feel dread or relief. 

“Don’t be. I wanted it,” Connor replied immediately. His eyes were still vaguely glazed over from his orgasm, like he’d literally seen a whole new world. _You’re beautiful,_ Oliver thought. And the knowledge that he was the only one who’d ever done that to Connor was humbling. Relief; then.

“… I love you,” Connor finally whispered shyly, his hands running through Oliver’s hair. If he’d blurted it out in the heat of the moment, what point was there in denying it? “I—I love you, Ollie. Don’t make me go.” Obviously he wasn’t used to saying it, if it came out so shy and awkward.

“I know,” Oliver whispered back, gently stroking his temple. Of course he was over the moon to hear it from Connor, finally. It was sexy and perfect and he wanted to believe it would make everything between them okay, with happily-ever-after and whatever came next. If it had been anyone else, anyone else, Oliver might have been crying with tears of joy to hear the words he’d waited for all his life. “I love you too.”

Connor’s head dropped slightly. “If I had said it sooner, then maybe… you wouldn’t be…”

“It’s not your fault,” Oliver reassured him. Maybe he was coming to terms with it, just like Connor said. Being positive wasn’t their fault. But there was still one last weakness they had to lay out bare in the open and overcome: the only thing left they had to figure out for the future. Connor nuzzled him on the cheek slightly with his stubble, still damp with rain and sweat. Maybe he was thinking the same thing. _Maybe that’s what he’s avoiding. The future,_ it struck Oliver suddenly. “I love you, Connor. But—”

Connor had pulled him close against his chest, clenching around him tightly everywhere it was possible, inside and out. “Don’t let me go, Ollie,” he whispered, half-frantic. Connor always _did_ hate talking. _I prefer to fuck things over,_ he’d smirked once months ago when Oliver had suggested going out for morning bagels and coffee just to talk. “Not now. I _need_ you. I _love_ you.”

“Calm down. If you’re willing to gamble with me, then I have to do the same. I know you’re trying to hide something from me that’s going to hurt both of us. Just—I wanted to protect you from this and you didn’t let me,” Oliver glanced down at himself, still not convinced he hadn’t transmitted the disease. “And I won’t let you keep this other secret from me forever. Connor, I have to know what happened that night you came to my door. You weren’t high, were you?”

That got Connor’s attention. “No, Ollie. Not—not _that,_ I _can’t_ —”

“You gave me a fake number, you got Laurel to play along. You’re not a drug addict,” Oliver looked him in the eye. “I know you lied to me. I _know_. Maybe it says a lot more about me than it does about you that I just—don’t care that you did, right now,” his head sunk slightly against Connor’s chest and he let out a tired sigh.

“Ollie, _please,_ ” Connor was legitimately terrified. Whatever color had come back into his face after coming in from the storm had swiftly drained out. “I—”

Oliver simply put a finger on his lips to calm him down. “I love you. So just… tell me.”

The guilt in Connor’s eyes was enough to confirm it. And trapped beneath Oliver, with Oliver still inside him, there was nowhere he could go. Silent, he nodded, looking like he wanted to disappear from the world. It stung to realize Connor had kept up a ridiculous lie like that for so long, and he wasn’t about to pretend it didn’t hurt. But the one thing Connor couldn’t lie about was how he’d shown up at the doorstep, hyperventilating and panicking, running to the only person he trusted, even if that person loathed the very thought of him at the time. Something had happened that he couldn’t deal with on his own.

Oliver reached out, gently stroking Connor’s temple to calm him down—it always did the trick—turning his gaze back to meet his own. “… You saw something terrible, didn’t you? That’s why you have the nightmares, isn’t it? It’s PTSD you’re dealing with, not remission,” it dawned on him. Connor didn’t say it out loud, but his eyes were shut, trying to lock the tears that had abruptly welled firmly inside—and he nodded, timid as a mouse.

It made so much more sense. It explained the nightmares and the sleepless nights he’d spent simply holding Connor and keeping him still after he’d scream awake in a cold sweat. It explained that bizarre afternoon in the fabric store during its Christmas in July sale, when they’d gone to buy quilt quarters for his mom and Connor had a panic attack when the Chipmunks came on over the radio. And Oliver felt deeply guilty somehow for not having realized it was what it was sooner: _trauma._ And he’d been Connor’s lifeline the entire time. _Utang-na-loob._ Connor had built up a debt of gratitude to him, alright, but one that Oliver was only starting to grasp the true depth of. He stroked his temple again soothingly. “Connor, it’s okay. You can tell me. You can trust me.”

Connor shook his head furiously. _Plead the fifth,_ Oliver remembered him saying once. Surely that was what he was doing now, trembling in fear? _I screwed up, Oliver. I screwed up so bad, I screwed up, I screwed up I screwed up I—_ “Not this. Ollie, if you knew, they’d—they’d be able to m-make you a part of it; I know the law, they can _do_ that—”

“I’ll take my chances,” Oliver echoed him from earlier, staying calm as Connor began to shake beneath him.

“You’ve got enough to worry about—”

“If it’s not an excuse for me, it’s not an excuse for you,” Oliver chided him. “Tell me. If you really want this—us—you have to.”

Connor turned away, unable to look his lover in the eye. “… I—I was there when Sam Keating was murdered. I saw it.”

_Murdered._

If being told he was positive wasn’t a punch to the gut, this would’ve taken the cake. “Oh my god, _Connor!_ Why didn’t you go to the police?!” Oliver’s jaw dropped.

“I c-couldn’t,” Connor’s eyes were shut firmly, as his voice cracked on the verge of another breakdown. “I _tried_. With Michaela. Then Laurel was there with Wes and Annalise and Annalise stopped us, she said it’d never go right for us if we did…”

And now Oliver’s head was spinning. “But if you know the truth, then why not—” And it hit him again, as he remembered how Connor meekly went back to his plate of spaghetti when a siren rang in the distance. Why else would Laurel have played along with the answering machine message; why would Michaela have rambled on about a drug problem she knew Connor didn’t have? _They all know about the murder. They were all a part of it somehow. If one confessed the others would pin it on them, and then…_

Oliver couldn’t even register thought at that point. His mind had gone completely white with shock, just as it had when he’d tested positive. Suddenly there was too much to think about, too much to handle. Connor was breaking apart in his arms, another sobbing wreck again and clinging to the only thing in his life that made any sense; and Oliver was staring beyond the bedsheets into a strange white abyss of consciousness as his body went cold, refusing to move. “What did you do?” He couldn’t hide the livid tremor in his voice. “Connor, don’t tell me _you_ —”

“I didn’t kill him,” Connor managed to get out. “I swear to you, I swear to god _I didn’t_. Not me. It wasn’t me, it _wasn’t_ , _Wes_ did it, he killed him; he was protecting _her_ when _her_ dumb ass broke into the house and it all happened so fast, we weren’t even supposed to _be_ there, we were at Wes’ to study and then I-I was f-fucking staring at his dead eyes on the f-floor and—”

“ _What,_ ” Oliver stared him down, shaking in anger. “ _did you do?_ ”

“Wes said… to go back for the body. That we h-had to—” he shuddered and broke down completely. “ _—burn it._ ”

_I screwed up so bad._

What was it the news had said? They’d found the body burnt, hacked to pieces, dumped in five bags in the landfill, and Oliver thought he would shrivel up and die right there. The love of his life was a murderer, he’d _fucked_ a murderer; not even that, his penis was still _inside_ a murderer and—no, that wasn’t right; Connor didn’t kill anyone, he just helped cover it up and he was probably the one who hacked the body to pieces, wasn’t he; out of those four he was the only one with the strength to do it, wasn’t he? _Oh god. That’s the smell,_ it hit him like a truck. _That’s what it smells like when you burn a human body. Oh god. How fucked up is it that I know what that smells like now because of him?_

He should have been _pissed_ about a lie like this, that Connor was covering up a murder and now he’d gone and gotten him wrapped up in the mess too just by knowing about it. Suddenly he felt sick and dizzy just like the night the drug cocktail had backfired on him, dizziness spiraling into nausea, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t keep it down—

But why on earth, _why on earth_ , could he only think of the slap from his mother all those years ago when he’d come home with broken glasses?

_Because you know what it’s like to have no one when you’re scared of yourself._

Oliver took long, slow breaths for strength and lifted his head to look down at his lover. Connor was still trapped beneath him, totally wrecked, sobbing uncontrollably, a far cry from the man who’d seduced him so long ago—hell, a far cry from the man who’d seduced him yet again just an hour before—drowning helplessly in the storm. Probably feeling like his life was over. One single night that had spiraled out of control and his life was over. _I need you. I love you._ “O-Oliver… I don’t know what to do anymore,” he sobbed. “A-All I know that’s right is—is _you_ , and if I don’t have you I—”

“Connor.”

Weakly, Connor turned to Oliver, eyes bloodshot, bottom lip trembling.

 _It’s gonna be okay._ “I’m not scared of you. Or us.”

He had to admit, Connor did sort of have a point, now that he knew exactly what was going on. Compared to his situation, HIV was nothing in comparison. A part of him was still outraged, but how would anyone have reacted in that situation? _It doesn’t define you,_ Connor had said. _Don’t let it define us._ Oliver had to wonder: would he let _this_ define Connor, or their relationship?

_I won’t let it._

He didn’t have to. He could define it with Mabodofu Mondays, re-gifted hand-knit hats from grandmothers, celebrations over apple cider, fighting over which Girl Scout cookie was superior, which was Thin Mints, of course, no matter how much Connor insisted it was Samoas; he could define it with Thorn Birds and Golden Girls and two cherries in a Makers Manhattan. He could define it with the gratitude in his heart for a man who’d stayed by his side during the worst nightmare of his life and came back to prove he wasn't alone. _Oh, it’s those two gay guys; the HIV positive nerd and the murdering slut?_ Let others think that and judge if they wanted. No one would decide who they were to each other but themselves.

 _I must be insane._ Oliver turned Connor’s face towards his, feeling a strange calm. After all, what had his mother always said? _You won’t know true happiness until you’ve truly suffered._ “I love you,” he said it definitively. Gratefully. “I need you too.”

Connor gasped silently in utter disbelief. A moment later he was pulling Oliver close, so tightly Oliver wondered if he’d break, sobbing dry tears. “Oliver… Oliver, I’m s-so sorry, I—”

 _We’ve suffered._ “I love you. We’ll figure it out.” A siren bleated in the distance, drawing near; this time both of them twitched together, as Oliver finally pulled out. _We’re bound to suffer more. Everything’s out of control now._ “I don’t know how, but…”

_But I’m finally happy, thanks to you._


End file.
